


Safety

by dxggorylives



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mosaic, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 02:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dxggorylives/pseuds/dxggorylives
Summary: It's been seven months since Arielle passed, and Eliot is ill. Quentin has emotions about it, and his ability to cope.





	Safety

Usually their bedroom felt like safety. Tonight, not so much.  
  
Clocks as they'd known them on earth didn't exist here yet but Quentin didn't need one to feel every second that trickled by, each one slow and strenuous and downright exhausting.  
  
Eliot had woken up that morning sick, with what he repeatedly claimed (as if somehow reading Q's mind and knowing where it would meander to) was a "very boring, very earth-like cold", only, "twice as annoying" given that he couldn't simply knock himself out for a couple of days with Nyquil and hot whiskey.  
  
The comment flushed Quentin with that familiar warmth of nostalgia, the way recollections about their past life often tended to do. However the feeling didn't linger more than a moment, instead was chased away and replaced by a pit of anxiety.  
  
Eliot was sick. Arielle had fallen sick a similar way no more than seven months ago, and the serendipity hit Quentin like a ton of bricks.  
  
He sent Eliot inside on the order of rest while he did the mosaic himself that day, not quite expecting him to comply. But with an exasperated eyeroll, Eliot turned and actually did as he was told. Which either meant he saw the flash of fear in Q's eyes, recognised the nervous waver in his voice... or that he actually felt bad enough to want to go back to bed.  
  
Come nightfall though, and Eliot's symptoms having sufficiently worsened throughout the course of the day, Quentin's anxieties felt all the more consuming. They thrived in the dark; when he was lying still in a quiet, twilight-soaked room, no responsibilities or distractions to draw his focus away from what worried him. His thoughts ran loose and wild with a free reign.  
  
***  
  
Now Eliot was sleeping, breathing heavily and slightly snoring from the congestion that had been building up all day. Quentin lay facing him, desperate to touch him, but resigning to just staring at him with bleary eyes and a furrowed brow. As stupid and overdramatic as it sounded he just... wanted to /feel/ him. Let the physical reminder that El was still here anchor him to earth and reassure him.  
  
The worst part was knowing this reaction was irrational, but having that one little part of him that was still aching and grief-stricken and letting that hijack his emotional state.  
  
As fate would have it Eliot's eyes blinked open then as he was forcibly dragged from sleep, heavy-lidded and red-rimmed as they were. In one fluid motion he twisted away from facing Q and sneezed twice, the sound heavy and scraping, like they hurt his throat. Eliot groaned and quickly grappled under his pillow for a handkerchief, just able to press it to his mouth quick enough for his breath to catch and result in a fit of coughing.  
  
Quentin swallowed hard and moved closer, bringing his hand to rub Eliot's back, his worry deepening as he felt his partner's muscles seize violently under his palm. Quentin bit his lip but continued rubbing, feeling slightly guilty he might have somewhat manifested this by his earlier desire to touch and disturb him.  
  
"El?" he asked hesitantly, piercing the relative silence that had descended upon the room as the fit tapered off. "You okay?"  
  
Eliot nodded with a tired sniffle, wiping the overflow of irritated tears from his eyes with a dry corner of the handkerchief. He glanced back at Quentin and followed his eyes down to the fabric Eliot held in his hand, glazed with fear in the light of the moon shining in through their bedroom window.  
  
Eliot hesitated for a second, but then his expression softened in understanding and he twisted back around to face Quentin, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear then cupping his cheek with his free hand.  
  
***  
  
"There's no blood in it, see?" he murmurs, his voice even and somehow still soothing in cadence as it always was, though rough and marred by illness.  
  
Quentin glances down, but slowly and cautiously. Like it's going to reach out and bite him.  
  
"This isn't like last time, Q" he says, staring hard into Quentin's eyes, silently imploring him to look at him. "I promise I'm okay..."  
  
Q's eyes flicked back up and met his gaze. They were fearful, but with a hint of steely determination that Eliot always admired in him because that specific brand of bravery was so quintessentially Quentin.  
  
He mirrored the other man's pose and cupped Eliot's cheek, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead.  
  
"I'll go and get you some water"

**Author's Note:**

> just a short lil thing i wrote a couple of weeks ago to get some Emos out!!


End file.
